Anew: Book Three: Entwined (18 page)

“He’s taking point,” Blakely says.
Her voice is a quiet but remorseless counterpoint to the soundless scream
erupting in my head.

Of course, he is. Ian would take
the lead. He would put himself at risk before any of his people.

“Sit,” Daphne says and eases me
into a chair.

I do as she says but I’m hardly
aware of it. I can’t see anything except what Ian is seeing. Can’t think of anything
but what he is confronting. The armor is good, I get that. But Davos will have
other weapons. He’s a rat in his hole but he’s not dead yet. He won’t just give
up.

A burst of light explodes directly
ahead of Ian. I bite back a gasp and dig my nails into the palms of my hands.

“IED,” Blakely murmurs. “The whole
entrance is likely to be booby trapped.”

“How do they deal with that?”
Daphne asks. Her voice is high and strained but at least she’s able to talk. My
throat is so tight that I don’t even try.

“Probes go in to detect and disarm
the traps. Once through this layer of defenses, our people will press Davos’
forces deeper into the mine until they have nowhere left to go.”

“You don’t think they have any
escape routes?” Daphne asks.

Blakely’s smile is grim. “They did.”
She gestures to a wider view of the battle zone. I see several simultaneous
explosions going off across the tundra. With a note of satisfaction, she adds,
“Now they don’t.”

I’m mildly reassured but only
briefly. The battle continues. I want to look away but I can’t. My only
consolation is that Ian keeps steadily moving forward, as do the people with
him. From what I can see, the casualties are coming from the other side.

I tune out the voices, all speaking
in rapid-fire military terms I can’t follow. Instead, I concentrate on what I
can see. Slowly, I become aware of the scroll of numbers at the bottom of the
monitor that shows the view from Ian’s helmet cam.

“What is that?” I manage to ask.

“Life signs,” Blakely says. She
takes a closer look and smiles. “The boss is rock steady. Cardio, respiration,
it’s all good.”

As glad as I am to hear that, I
find myself unable to look away from those numbers. They are quite literally
Ian’s life right now. A wave of sense memories assails me--the rhythm of his heart
beneath the palm of my hand. The warmth of his breath on the back of my neck. The
heat of his body thrusting into mine.

I have to close my eyes for a
moment. When I open them again, I gasp. The holographic monitor has turned
incandescent white. For a sickening instant, I’m back in the city, on the
street in front of the club. The drone has just exploded. I’m blinded by the
flash, desperate to get to Ian, not knowing if I will find him alive or--

“It’s okay,” Daphne says, gripping
my arms. I must have cried out or said something because she’s in a rush to
reassure me. “Look at his life signs, he’s fine.”

Frantically, my gaze locks on the
flow of numbers. Not only are they still coming, they appear unchanged despite
whatever it is that has just happened.

Even so… “He won’t be able to see.”
I choke out the words, terrified of their implication.

“His visor will have blocked out
most of the light,” Blakely says. “There, the camera’s back.”

Where the flash was there’s a
gapping black hole with shredded metal hanging to either side.

“They blew an inner door, that’s
all,” Blakely says. “It just means that they’re getting closer.”

When I can breathe again, I give
her a nod of thanks.

The tempo picks up. There are more
flashes, more glimpses of bodies lying unmoving. The deeper Ian and the others
get into the mine, the narrower the tunnels become. The fear that they will be
trapped is choking me. I have to fight to draw in air but I can’t look away.

Abruptly, a tongue of fire leaps
from the far end of the tunnel. Ian moves quickly to the side but not before I
see what almost struck him. Splotches of a burning liquid strike the floor and
walls. They stick to the surfaces they hit and continue burning fiercely.

Blakely curses under her breath.
“Jeez, is that…?” She glances at one of the monitors and snorts with disgust.
“Napalm. That stuff’s been outlawed for years. Davos’ people are stupid to use
it. It can get out of control fast.”

“Will the armor protect Ian and the
others from it?” I manage to ask.

“Up to a point,” she says. Her tone
has turned grim. So have the expressions of the others in the OC.

My stomach clenches. Hoarsely, I
ask, “What will they do?”

Blakely shrugs. “The boss always
tries to minimize casualties even on the other side but if they’re going to
drag out a weapon like napalm--”

She leaves the rest unspoken but I
understand all the same. What follows over the next few minutes is almost more
than I can bear to watch. I only do so because of the fear, admittedly
irrational, that if I withdraw my attention from Ian for even a moment, he will
disappear. In a flash of light, a tongue of fire, in some way that will shatter
my universe.

I remain riveted to the monitor as
the battle evolves into an all-out, no-holds-barred struggle. Ian and his people
move forward relentlessly amid explosions and shouts, tracer fire streaking through
the darkness and bodies falling. I realize that they’re penetrating deeper and
deeper into the mine. Finally, they blow yet another heavy steel door and step
into what looks like a control room.

A man is standing at the far end of
it. Silver-haired, his features are all too familiar.

Davos!

Ian raises his weapon. He has said
from the beginning that he intends to kill Davos himself and I have no doubt at
all that he is about to do so. The numbers spooling across the monitor remain
rock steady. He has no hesitation, no mercy.

But before he can fire, a tongue of
flame lashes across the control room and in an instant engulfs his target.

Davos screams as the sticky, burning
substance soaks his clothing, turning it into a sheet of flame. Clawing at the
garments, he tries to pull them off but he’s too late. The napalm is already
sinking through to his skin. For all that he has reminded me of a reptile, he
can’t shed that.

I want to look away, I need to. But
I can’t. The image in front of me is seared into my brain. Even as it is still
happening, I know that I will never be able to forget the sight of Davos
burning alive. If there is a more horrible way to die, I cannot imagine it.

Someone is spraying a cloud of foam
over him but it’s too late. The charred husk that falls to the floor hardly
even looks like a man anymore. Yet hideously it continues to twitch until
finally, mercifully, it goes still and doesn’t move again.

Slowly, I become aware that someone
is vomiting nearby. Daphne. She has her head in a waste basket, her shoulders
heaving. Even Blakely looks as though she’s in dire need of fresh air. She’s
hardly alone. Around the control room, I see the grim, stunned faces of decent
men and women who, however glad they are to be rid of an enemy, cannot help but
be affected by the horror they have just witnessed.

Any more than I can. Stumbling to
my feet, I drag in lungfuls of air. Instinctively, my gaze seeks Ian. I can see
him in the view from a dozen helmet cams. He’s standing in the center of a
group of his people, giving orders. My gaze flicks to the bottom of his own
monitor. His heartbeat is slightly accelerated, evidence that he, too, was
repelled by what we have all just witnessed. But it’s rapidly returning to
normal.

Those of Davos’ men who are still
alive are surrendering. The burned corpse is bundled into a body bag.

Over the com, I hear, “Prep for
extraction in ten.”

“Roger, copy,” one of the people in
the OC says. “Choppers moving in now.”

“It won’t be long,” Blakely says
quietly. “The choppers are only a few miles out at sea, on that freighter I
mentioned. They’ll pick our people up and transport them to a landing strip
where our aircraft our waiting.”

I turn and look at her. She’s pale
but clearly relieved. “It’s over,” she says. “They’ll be home soon.”

My response is visceral. I want to
shout, weep, hug everyone in sight, do anything I can to express the joy that
ignites every cell in my body. But this isn’t the time or place, not when I can
see from the serious faces of the people around me that there is still work to
be done.

I put an arm around Daphne’s
shoulders. She’s stopped vomiting, if only barely. “Come on,” I say softly.
“Let’s get some air.”

Together, we stumble out of the OC
into the golden sunshine and soft breezes of a world that feels reborn.

Amelia

I
an comes off the plane last. After all his people
have disembarked, including those carrying the black body bag that goes into
the back of a truck and is quickly driven off in the direction of the medical
center.

It is, I know, a gesture of his
respect for them and of his commitment. He will always be the first man in and
the last man out. Loving him as I do, I can only respect that.

He stops at the bottom of the steps
to hand off his equipment, then scans the tarmac. I wait, suddenly unable to
move. As much as I have been anticipating his return, the sight of him--alive,
whole, here--fills me with a sense of lightness so intense as to be almost
frightening. If I move, I will be no more substantial than dandelion fluff on
the wind.

I’m standing alone, Daphne having
already been reunited with Gab. Almost everyone has left the airfield. The few
that remain to see to the planes aren’t paying any attention to us.

The moment Ian catches sight of me,
he starts across the airfield, his quick strides eating up the distance between
us. The afternoon sun catches the golden glints buried within the dark mahogany
of his hair and gilds the planes and angles of his face. He didn’t have time to
shave this morning; we lingered too long in bed, lost in each other. Scruff
softens the hard line of his jaw.

Every movement of his body is at
once graceful and strong. He keeps coming, never slowing, until we are no more
than scant inches apart, so close that I can see the rapid rise and fall of his
chest. The thought occurs to me that now, when the danger is past, he is
finally no longer calm.

His hands cup my face, his eyes
searching mine. At his first touch, a soft gasp escapes me. The connection between
us is instant and overwhelming. I feel it everywhere but nowhere more intensely
than deep inside me where muscles clench with yearning for him.

“Amelia,” he murmurs. The note of
wonder and relief in his voice sounds like a prayer.

He doesn’t have to say more. I know
exactly how he feels. After everything that the world has thrown at us, we are
here and together.

And Davos is dead.

“He’s really gone?” I whisper.

Ian nods. “We did a DNA test in the
field. My people will do more, if they can get the samples but that may be
difficult.”

 “What happened?” I don’t mean to
ask but I can’t stop myself. “One moment he was standing there and the next--”
The memory of Davos being turned into a human torch makes me shudder.

Ian wraps his arms around me and
draws me close. I lean my head against his chest, savoring his warmth, the
strength of his body, and the sheer joy of his presence.

Quietly, he says, “I know it’s hard
but try not to dwell on what you saw. Napalm is unpredictable. If he died
because of his decision to use it…” He pauses a moment, then says, “But it looked
more to me like one of his men killed him deliberately.”

I stiffen, unable to conceal my
shock. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Maybe because whatever he was
paying them, it wasn’t enough for the fight they found themselves in? They didn’t
have the training or commitment to deal with it very well.”

He steps back a little and smiles
but his gaze remains serious. “Forget about that. Are we okay?”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes widens slightly, as though
he’s surprised that I have to ask. Patiently, he explains, “Do you forgive me
for not using you to lure Davos out?”

Oh, that.

“How can I not, considering the
outcome?” Hearing myself, I flush. The last thing I want to be is petulant or
grudging. Ian is back and Davos is dead. Compared to that, surely nothing else
matters.

I push aside the lingering thought
that Ian has yet to really understand what I am capable of and touch his face
gently. His stubble is at once soft and prickly under my fingers, the sensation
transmitting itself along every nerve ending in my body. Desire, always present
for him, uncoils swiftly.

“But you have to let me do
something for you,” I say.

A flare of heat moves behind his
eyes, bringing an answering rush of moisture deep inside me. Distantly, I
marvel that we were together just scant hours ago yet I hunger for him
desperately. In the space of less than a day, Ian has flown to the other side
of the world, disposed of a deadly enemy, and returned. My need to acknowledge
that is primal.

“What did you have in mind?” he
asks.

“Everything,” I say and tug his
hand, leading him in the direction of the dock and the boat that can’t get us
home quickly enough

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I have to admit,” Ian murmurs a
short time later, “this isn’t quite what I expected.”

“No?” I inquire, arching a brow.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he adds
quickly.

We’re soaking in the
furo
.
Entering it again, I was reassured to discover that only the faintest echo of
my fear remains. Rather than trouble me, it serves as a welcome reminder of
what I have overcome, thanks to Ian’s help.

Softly, I ask, “Are you
uncomfortable, letting me take care of you?”

Before getting into the water, I
insisted on undressing and bathing him. Using the hose, a sandalwood scented
body wash, and my hands, I removed all visible traces of what happened in the
mine. To my great relief, he has only a few scrapes and bruises. All the same,
I don’t underestimate the emotional toll of seeing a man burn alive.

I ignored, as best I could, his
rampant erection. It’s so easy to lose ourselves in sex but after what he’s
just been through, I have a visceral need to give him tenderness as well.

 “Actually, I like it,” he admits,
a little sheepishly.

I frown. What am I seeing in the
hooded droop of his eyelids, the deprecating shrug of his shoulders?
Shyness?
Is that possible? The man who can make me want him with a single glance is shy
about admitting that he likes to be taken care of?

My heart tightens. I know Ian’s
mother, she’s a good woman. But given how things must have been in the home
dominated by his brutal father--

It occurs to me that Ian has spent
his life fighting men who believe they are superior to everyone else and can
treat those weaker than themselves in any way they choose.

And now he has hunted, trapped, and
killed the worst of them.

I gaze at him across the width of
the
furo
, set into the bamboo floor and surrounded by cool tiles.
Beyond, sliding doors are open to a private garden, separate from the larger
one and surrounded by moss-draped stone walls. Unlike the expansive view from
the moon window, the mood here is of intimacy and private, sensual enjoyment.

Ian’s head is tilted back against
the smooth rim of the tub, his powerful arms stretched out to either side. He looks
relaxed, almost slumberous, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. But
the passing impression is deceptive. His gaze has narrowed to an amber shard
and is focused intently on me.

I squirm a little in the water,
hoping he doesn’t see how aroused I am. I’m frankly a little embarrassed by it,
a first for me that I have to chalk up to the circumstances. My need for him is
even more primal than usual. I can only assume that it’s compounded by his nearness,
the lingering impact of what I witnessed in the OC, and the adrenaline rush of
relief.

I’ve barely begun to recover from
the stress of the past few hours but Ian seems to have put it all behind him
without a second thought. No one looking at him could guess that he has just
returned from a savage fight against an implacable enemy.

“How do you do it?” I ask in a bid
to distract him.

“Do what?”

“Shift gears…decelerate? I don’t
even know how to put it. You were in a battle. Now you’re here. How do you just
switch off the instincts you must need in order to fight and win?”

“What makes you think that I do?”

That gives me pause. I just
assumed-- “You look…so relaxed.”

He smiles faintly. “Appearances can
be deceptive, Amelia. For example, right now I’m discovering that I’m not as
immune to certain aftereffects of battle as I’ve always thought I was.”

It can’t be easy for a man who
others look to for unfaltering strength to admit this. His willingness to do so
with me is humbling.

 “You’re a human being,” I say
softly. “Of course, what you just went through is very traumatic.”

Ian shrugs. “Our training prepares
us to deal with all aspects of violence and death. I don’t minimize the
psychological effects of either but they’re nothing new so far as I’m concerned.
What I’m experiencing now is different.”

His gaze narrows, raking over me.
“You make it different.”

“I do? How--?”

He hesitates. “You want the truth?”

“Yes, of course, always.”

“I used to wonder why some people,
whenever they’ve been in a fire fight, can’t think about anything afterward
except getting laid. I mean, I get the whole thing about affirmation of life
and so on but a long shower and some grub always did it for me.”

Beneath the swirling water, I press
my thighs together. “Yes, well…I can understand that. About the sex, I mean,
and the shower and food, too, of course. In fact, if you’re hungry--”

He cuts me off with a look that
goes straight to my groin. “What I’m trying to say is that as much as I really
do appreciate all this--” He gestures at the bath, me, the garden beyond-- “The
need to lay you down and lose myself in you is overwhelming. But…”

 “But what?” I ask faintly.

Ian glances away for a moment. When
he turns back at me, the shadow of vulnerability in his gaze is so unexpected
that my breath catches. “I almost gave orders to keep you out of the Operations
Center.”

“Why?”

 “It’s one thing for you to know
what I do. It’s another for you to actually see me do it.”

Slowly, the meaning of his words
sinks in. He’s come so far dealing with his inner demons--we both have--that I
haven’t considered what else he has to cope with. Not until now. This isn’t
about Ian the private man. This is about who he is in the world, what he does,
and how he does it.

And whether or not I can accept it.

Quietly, I say, “I saw an
extraordinarily brave and capable man dealing with a loathsome enemy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

If I didn’t have the sense that he
is somehow disappointed, I’d stop right here. But he is right to suspect that
I’m being less than forthcoming.

Slowly, I add, “I couldn’t help
noticing that you seem to have an ability to separate yourself from what’s
happening around you even in terrible circumstances and just focus on what has
to be done.”

His mouth thins a little. “So you discovered
that I can concentrate really well?”

I take a breath, let it out slowly,
and give him the candor he deserves. “You close yourself off emotionally. I
think you learned to do that when you were a child and you still depend on it
to a great degree. Sometimes it’s beneficial. It lets you stay in control, deal
with horrible situations, and save lives. But other times--”

Daringly, I scoot through the water
until I’m next to him. Without giving him a chance to reply, I cup his face in
my hands and plead, “I don’t want you to do it with me. You don’t have to
always be strong and indomitable. When something is as terrifying and sickening
as what you experienced today, it’s all right to be affected by it.”

A moment passes…another. I hang in
the balance, waiting for his response, not knowing if I have gone too far,
until--

He makes a sound low in his throat
and drags me hard against him. There’s an edge of desperation in his touch. So
faintly that I can hardly hear him, he says, “I can still smell the fucker burning.”

A sob rises from deep inside me. I
bite it back and wrap my arms around him tightly, longing in whatever way I can
to comfort him.

“It’s all right,” I murmur. “He’s
gone, it’s over, and we’re here, alive and together.”

For a long moment, we stay like
that, the water of the
furo
lapping around us. Then Ian stands with me
in his arms. I curl around him as he takes the few steps needed to reach the
private garden.

His big, hard body presses me onto
the bed of fragrant grass, soft and cool against my heated skin. A breeze stirs
the cassia trees, releasing the scent of cinnamon. Golden blossoms drift over
us.

Our love making is as fierce as it
is achingly tender. In the grip of shattering pleasure, I cling to him and sob
his name. Every fiber of my being cries out to stay like this forever but I
know that isn’t possible.

The late afternoon sunlight,
filtering through the branches overhead, is suddenly blinding. But behind it I
see the gathering shadows of the world to which we must inevitably return.